


Last Time/Next Time

by tiger_in_the_flightdeck



Series: Tiger's Tumblr Ficlets [20]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Reincarnation, sort of, soul mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 15:58:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_in_the_flightdeck/pseuds/tiger_in_the_flightdeck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes when John looks over, it isn’t Sherlock that he sees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Time/Next Time

Sometimes when John looks over, it isn’t Sherlock that he sees. 

When he looks out of the corner of his eye, while typing, or reading, of finishing one of Mrs. Hudson’s crosswords, it isn’t Sherlock standing there. 

The first time had terrified him. A tall, gaunt figure in a dove grey dressing gown had stood, staring into the fire, and John had panicked. His hand had grabbed for a sidearm he no longer carried, and the colour had drained from his face until Sherlock was there, checking his pulse. “Just ghosts, love. Don’t worry." John had chuckled the concern away. 

The dreams were the most vivid. John would fall asleep with his nose pressed into almond scented curls, and his hand holding a wide swell of hips. As he drifted away into dream-land a long, lithe form settled on top of him. “I’ve missed you. You took longer this time." High and lark like, the voice hummed against his ear. It was warm, and familiar, and when the slim hips began to move and slide, John would wake with a shudder and a groan, and damp pants. 

Sherlock would roll his eyes in disgust, and turn onto his belly, parting his legs. “Hurry up. I need to be awake in five hours."

Sometimes when John looks over Sherlock’s eyes flash a bright, vivid green, and the doctor would wonder what he would look like with thin glasses and a stained white lab coat. And for a moment, just the briefest flash of a moment, he would know. Just as he would know what it would feel like to have Sherlock standing at his side in a battle, trusted with his life. Or that he would have a strong, unaccountable fear of Sherlock slipping from the rail of a boat, and sinking straight to the bottom. He knew how well he could swim, but John felt an irrational horror at the thought of Sherlock near water.

"Do you ever feel like we… Never mind. Stupid question."

"Yes, probably." 

John kissed a line down Sherlock’s spine, and tightened his arm around his waist. “Probably you have, or probably a stupid question?" He trailed bite marks along his back.

Toes curling, Sherlock writhed like a cat- _Always a cat. Why is he always a cat? Almost always_.- and moaned softly. He rolled over onto his front, and looked back over his shoulder. This time, there was no trace of disgust as he tilted his hips up. “I probably have felt it, too, John."

With his cheek pressed into his pillow, only one of his glittering grey eyes could be seen, and even this was shielded by a tumble of wickedly innocent curls. John had to admit, the curls were his favourite new feature.

"Do you believe in it, then?" John knelt on either side of Sherlock’s thighs, and licked his fingertips. Biting his lip, he stroked the small gap at the top of the detective’s legs. 

Sherlock tucked his elbows under his chest to arch his spine back. As John pressed himself into the space between his thighs, he lifted his hips in response. The weight on top of him rutted him down into the mattress, and one of John’s small, capable hands slipped under him to help. “I have to believe the evidence." he breathed as fingers wrapped around him and squeezed.

John stretched himself out, so he was flush to his partner’s back. He didn’t need to concentrate; his body knew what it was doing. “There’s never been any surprises." Sherlock flexed his legs, trying to mimic the swallow and churn of when John was buried up to the root inside of him. For a moment, there was nothing in the room but the sound of skin on skin. The round, padded arse was another new favourite that John could get lost in.

"You’ve always known exactly what I need, before I need it." Sherlock lifted his legs to press his feet against John’s back, urging him to go faster. Harder. “With a bit of guidance, at least." He hugged his pillow to his chest, ready to use it to smother his noise. It was instinct for him to stay quiet.

John leaned to the side, and swatted Sherlock on the arse. “Oi, no cheek." He darted his fingers and nipped the side of the man’s neck, just below his ear. Licking it, he puffed a soft breath of air over the spot, and soon Sherlock was going rigid beneath him. As thick and hot fluid pumped out into John’s palm, Sherlock bucked a squirmed, biting down on the pillow.

With a smug grin of triumph, John placed his palms flat on Sherlock’s shoulder blades to hold himself up. He rocked and rutted, and soon followed him over the edge with a low cry. 

When Sherlock had been cleaned and tended, and thoroughly praised, John rested beside him once again. “So, you feel it too, yeah?" 

Sherlock absently scrubbed at a patch of drying semen that had been missed by the tissues. “Sometimes, you aren’t you. It’s usually right before I fall asleep, or just as I’m waking up. Often when I’m dreaming of you, you don’t look like my John." He frowned, his eyebrows twitching together. “You look like someone else’s." 

"Like I’m still me, but I’m wearing someone else’s body?"

Pale eyes growing tired, Sherlock nodded. “Sometimes you’re a soldier, leading an army. Occasionally we are nothing more than friends, and I hate it, because I need everything from you." He rested his head on John’s chest, tracing the outline of his scar. “Once, you were a blind man, teaching me to paint. Another, we met at a symphony, and we lived out our lives together from there. We’ve…" he cleared his throat, and grabbed at John’s wrist as an anchor. “We’ve died together. Too many times." 

John ran his fingers through tangled curls. “But we always wake up, and we’re together." He brushed his lips over Sherlock’s forehead. “We always find each other." 

"Swear it?"

"I swear I’ll always find you again. You’ll recognise my smile, so you know it’s me."

Sherlock was already asleep, dreaming of the last time they had murmured this conversation.

**Author's Note:**

> A shiny new ficlet, to anyone that can name all the versions of Holmes and Watson I used in this!


End file.
